


The Painter

by Bella_Watson_Holmes, WinterAsh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bella_Watson_Holmes/pseuds/Bella_Watson_Holmes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterAsh/pseuds/WinterAsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting a new life as a live-in doctor at an apartment complex that houses semi-independent patients with mental disorders, John Watson attempts to move past his wife's murder by throwing himself into his work. However, a reclusive painter with an Anti-Social disorder might be too much for him to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Painter

by Ash Winters

Chapter 1

The slamming of the cab door was the sole sound on the rather empty street, echoing about in the early morning silence. There was a light fog and a chill in the air which caused John to pull his coat tighter around himself as he bent his knees so he could reach down just enough to grasp the handle of his luggage. He took a deep breath and stared at the looming structure that was partially concealed in fog; he was starting a new life here, away from everything.

He nodded to himself and began walking down the slightly cracked walkway until he reached the creaking metal doors. He entered the large entrance way and looked around. The architect betrayed the age of the building, for it was far from new. Plaster was coming away in chunks in some places and wallpaper was hanging down, the marble floors could do with a polish but he doubted the tenants cared.

"Doctor Watson?"

He turned at the soft, feminine voice that echoed from the direction of the staircase. A young woman stood, fidgeting with her clipboard at the foot of the stairs, chewing on her bottom lip before giving him a small smile.

"Yes, that's me." He said quickly, jolting slightly as he strode forward without his luggage with a hand extended for a surprisingly firm shake.

"I'm Molly Hooper, the psychiatrist you'll be working with. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Silence fell and they looked awkwardly around. John chuckled slightly before saying, "This place could do with a nice polish, don't you think?"

The light tinkle of a laugh came from beside him as she agreed and he smiled gently at her.

"Shall I show you where you'll be working and living in from now on?"

"Yes, that would be brilliant."

She smiled and gestured towards his abandoned luggage when he went to follow her up the flight of stairs. He chuckled in embarrassment before hurrying to his wheeled luggage bag and followed after her.

"Normally we would use the lift, but it broke down yesterday. I really hope they hire a janitor and caretaker soon, this place really needs it."

He nodded in understanding and followed her up another two flights of stairs before they made their way down an empty hall until they arrived at an office.

"This is where you and I will be working. My room is there," She started, gesturing to a large room with a desk and plush chairs in it, "Your room will be there."

He looked to where she pointed at the opposite end of the room from her office and made his way into the large, incredibly white room with a desk against the wall and a padded hospital cot on the opposite side.

"It's perfect." He said, a thrill tickling inside him over such a drastic change from his previous life.

He waved a hand as if to wave the thoughts away before turning around to where Molly was awkwardly standing with some files in her hands.

"I figured we could go over the main tenants you'll be in charge of. Most of the people who live here will only see you for their yearly check-up, but these three need to be seen weekly. You don't mind going over it right now do you? I figured once I showed you your rooms you'd like to settle in so best get this out of the way, right?"

John smiled and murmured his understanding before the two made their way into Molly's office and settled down on opposite sides of the desk.

"This man here? He's manic depressive so you need to check him over once a week, sometimes daily if he has an episode, for any cuts, bruises or other evidence of self-harm. While I technically decide the medication, we need the doctor to write out the prescriptions and take them to the pharmacy to get them filled, so if you feel he needs to see me due to his medication not working or being too weak, take him to me immediately."

He nodded as he took the folder from her and opened it, studying the picture and notes about the young man. One James Moriarty, Manic Depressive, known to cut himself repeatedly. Has a caretaker named Sebastian Moran who visits him bi-weekly if not more often. Calms him down. He hummed in curiosity as he closed the file and held it in his lap, looking up at the young psychiatrist to continue.

"This woman here isn't really a problem in medical terms, but she has no caretaker and we have none hired for those without so for now you'll double as her caretaker. She has severe Agoraphobia and can't leave her flat without having a mental breakdown. Weekly check on her and get her groceries for her, is that all right with you?"

"Yes. Poor girl." John murmured as he peered at the very attractive woman whom stared out from the file. One Irene Adler, Agoraphobic but otherwise normal, recovering slowly.

"This is the hardest case here." She murmured, chewing her lip as she looked down at the file in her hand. "I tried to be-friend him but he would have none of it sadly. Maybe you'll do better. He has Anti-Social Personality Disorder of the Sociopathic kind and tends to stay inside at all times. He has little interest in human interaction and spends almost all his time painting or reading textbooks. You'll have to check on him bi-weekly for he has a habit of not eating, not sleeping and sometimes drug use on the rare occasion he leaves his room. For the most part he has stopped cocaine and cigarette usage, but sometimes drug paraphernalia is found in his possession. Poor thing was shoved here by his uncaring family and he has no caretaker either, but our security guard tends to fetch him food after he's collapsed and sometimes he can force the man to eat. You have to be both a doctor and a friend to him, as well as a caretaker. He'll be a lot to take care of but I'm looking forward to your future with us."

Molly was still talking but John had tuned her out as he stared into the fierce gaze that peered up at him wisely from the photo in the file. Unruly hair, a harsh expression, porcelain skin. His file was the thickest and full of harsh notes from the previous doctor. The man was beautiful. He shook his head as he realised Molly had been calling him for a minute or so.

"I'm sorry. I was distracted by the large amount of notes in here."

"Oh, ignore them. The previous doctor hated his guts and almost killed him. Shall I show you to your room now?" She asked, her eyes shifting to the side showing she didn't really want to talk about her old co-worker.

"That would be great." He said with a smile, following her slim form down the hall and up another flight of stairs until he found himself in an empty, but large, flat.

"I'm just down the hall, two doors to the left if you need anything. Have a good day." She said with a smile before making her way back down to her office.

He sighed and looked around the dim, grungy looking room. He now understood why she had suggested he arrive early the day prior to his first day working. This place needed a good scrub and cleansing. He huffed, placed his luggage in a corner and went to work locating possible cleaning supplies to tidy this flat up.

A smile curved his lips while he was elbow deep in grime as he scrubbed at a window. This was tedious, but he felt more alive now than he had in years and it was wonderful.


	2. Chapter 2

The Painter

by Ash Winters

Chapter 2

Hands clenched the sheets, sweat made his body sheen in the dim moonlight that filtered in through the window. It all ended with a cry and the body sat upright, eyes wide, panting heavily. John clenched his teeth and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead as he felt a few tears squeeze themselves from between tightly clenched lids.

"Mary.. I'm so sorry."

He sobbed quietly, curled into himself as he tried to push the nightmare out of his mind. His shoulders soon ceased it's shaking as he calmed himself down and stood up, making his way to the bathroom to relieve himself. He gripped the sink as he stared into his bloodshot eyes, noting the bags that grew daily due to his constant nightmares.

"I need to get a hold of myself." He muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before going about his business.

The early morning light found him curled up in his pyjamas with a cup of tea and a book. He put it down and sighed, pulling his phone over to see if anyone messaged him, but of course no one did.

He smiled sadly as he looked at the date. It would have been there two year anniversary had she...

He pushed it out of his mind, sighed, and turned the lamp off, putting his tea and book beside the bed as he laid down. His thoughts drifted to his late wife and he felt a smile curve his lips. Last years anniversary had been perfect.

–

The cab pulled in front of Mary's favourite restaurant. John got out of the cab first and took her hand, helping her out. Her beautiful long brunette hair draped over her shoulders and John couldn't help but smile as their eyes met. The blond quickly paid the cabbie and he took his wife's hand.

"So, this is what you have been planning since last week."

"Yes, I wanted it to be special, it is our anniversary after all." John said. She laughed just a little and John looked at her incredulously, "What?"

"Nothing, just you." She smiled, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips.

"Let's go get dinner."

They went into the restaurant and sat down, ordering their meal and champagne, and chatted amiably until their food arrived. Silence fell and John, between bites, would look up at his wife and watch her delicate movements. She would just smile at him when she'd meet his eyes before going back to her food. It was a wonderful dinner.

As they left the restaurant, they decided to take a walk before hailing a cab home; Mary smiled, looking up at the stars.

"John." Mary said as she stopped walking.

"Yes?" John asked, turning to looking at her.

"I love you.".

"I love you too."

–

He drifted off to sleep with a sad smile and his wife's name on his lips.

He didn't sleep long, however, for a frantic pounding on his front door startled him awake. He jumped out of the bed, knocking his cup of tea over on the floor, but he ignored it as he rushed to the front of the flat and opened his door to see Molly in her nightie and dressing gown, panting and looking beyond panicked.

"It's one of the tenants, the nurse found him collapsed in his room when it was pill time and you didn't answer your phone, so they called me. I'm sorry I woke you but it's urgent, please follow me!"

He nodded and hurried after her, not caring for his state of undress as he rushed past her and into his office to where the nurse and security guard were hefting a thin form onto the cot.

"It's Mr. Holmes, he probably hasn't eaten again. Twice a month this happens, I don't see why I should care." Came the exasperated voice of the security guard.

"The one who rarely eats or sleeps, right?" John asked in a hasty whisper to Molly, whom nodded and worriedly chewed on her bottom lip.

"He feels it lowers his creativity and brain power, though normally he at least eats once a week and sleeps during his slumps, but on occasion he forgets to eat when working." She murmured before pushing at John's back with a whispered, "Help him, doctor."

John sighed and made his way to the bed, calling the man's name to see if he'd wake up from his faint so he could make him eat real food instead of having to administer an I.V. He nearly jumped back when eyes so pale opened up and stared up at him, a look of annoyance obvious on his features.

"What?"

"Great, he's conscious. Someone get him some food and water, please!" John called out, sighing as everyone filed out. Two going to get what he needed, the others to go back to bed.

"When was the last time you ate, Mr. Holmes?" John asked as he leaned against the cot and stared down at the pale man.

"Sherlock." He corrected before continuing, "What does it matter. Obviously not soon enough. How bothersome. Let me guess, you'll keep me under supervision to make sure I eat, thus leaving me little time to work, right?"

"Actually, no. I will just check up on you from time to time to make sure you eat at least something. Heaven forbid I hold you from your work." John muttered in reply, smirking a touch at the surprised look he received from the other man.

"Good." Sherlock murmured, looking more calm before he dropped the bombshell, "How's your wife? Did you leave her to come here? No, that's not it, it's something worse. You threw everything away to come here, that look you have. Ah. Widowed."

John froze and stared at the man, whom just looked at him blankly.

"Sherlock, you need to learn some tact!"

Molly ushered in with a tray of food, moving the hospital table over with her foot until it was next to him and placed the tray on it. She looked at John in a searching manner before she put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off and stalked out of the room.

Molly looked back at Sherlock who was chewing diligently at his food before looking at her with a cocked brow, "The devil is his problem?"

"Sherlock, his wife was murdered. Last month. You'd think you'd at least have the thought to not bring it up. I'm sure you could tell just how recent it was." She hissed at the man, whom merely shrugged and went back to eating.

"Not my problem." He murmured before going back to eating. Once a good portion of the plate was gone and he gulped down the glass of water the nurse brought him he stared up at Molly and asked if he could leave.

"It's the doctor's decision, not mine. You blew it. Seriously." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair before she hurried out to where the blonde was staring out the window vacantly.

"Can he leave?" She asked him tentatively, sighing when the doctor simply shrugged before muttering, "Let him go. I shouldn't have reacted so badly. How did he guess that I was widowed, though?"

"It's just what he does." She answered simply, before going back to the doctor's room to tell Sherlock he could go.

John glanced at the doorway in time to see the tall, thin man exit in his rumpled dress-shirt and trousers. He nodded slightly at the doctor before leaving quickly. The blonde let out a long, suffering sigh before he turned the lights off and went back to his room.


	3. Chapter 3

The Painter

by Ash Winters

Chapter 3

John let out a long, suffering sigh as he sat down on his bed. He glanced to the side before he rubbed his face with his hands, then looked at the clock to see he could still sleep for an hour.

"Might as well. I barely slept this night as is." He muttered to himself before laying on his bed, on top of his covers, not giving a care to covering himself. He shifted around until he was comfortable and eventually was able to fall into sleep.

–

"John? I'm at Debenhams and there seems to be a commotion outside. I swear it sounds like gunfire."

John looked at his phone, perplexed. Gunfire on Oxford?

"You sure a car didn't backfire? Do you want me to head down there to pick you up?"

"No, no. You're right. I'm probably just over-reacting. I'll be home shortly. I'm just so unnerved I think it better I head home straight away and come back again tomorrow before the dinner party."

"If you're sure. You know what? I'll come down anyway. Let's go out for dinner, just the two of us, before the dinner date with your family tomorrow evening. What do you say?"

"You sure know how to treat a lady, John." She laughed, causing John to smile warmly at the sound, "Why not, come and pick me up. I'll go wait at the corner for you."

"See you in about ten minutes then, Mary. Do be careful."

"I will. See you in a bit!"

John hung up and smiled to himself before going to the door and grabbing his jacket and slipping on his shoes. He made sure he had his wallet and his keys before he left his flat and headed down to Oxford.

What he didn't expect, however, was for the night to end with him holding his dead wife's bleeding body after a stray bullet from a shoot out a little down the street went straight through her heart. She was dead before she hit the ground.

–

John sat up, drenched in sweat as his heart palpitated wildly. He relived this moment night after night. How many times did he have to see his dead wife's body before it left him alone? Was this her haunting him for thinking it was nothing when he should have told her to stay in the store until he got there?

He punched the bed in his frustration before falling back onto it, tears sliding from the corners of his eyes. It was not fair, not even escaping from his old life seemed to save him. He let out a suffering sigh before getting out of bed for the second time that morning and made his way into the bathroom where he decided on a nice, long and hot shower.

He let his mind wander as the hot water assaulted his body, loosening tight muscles and generally soothing his pained mind. His thoughts went to the insufferable git of this morning and he found himself clenching his fists slightly. This is what he was going to deal with? Some... kid who couldn't take care of himself and somehow guessed he was widowed?

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before turning off the water and getting out after a quick towel dry. After getting dressed and attempting to eat something for breakfast, he headed down to his office for his first day at work.

He greeted Molly, whom was already in her office, before heading into his own where he saw a file resting on his desk, which was barren this morning during the Holmes fiasco.

He sat down and looked it over. It seemed today he'd be meeting the boy with manic-depression. This wasn't going to be fun, if he wasn't lucid he could be anything from suicidal to homicidal. He ran a hand over his face and prepared the room for the appointment, putting restraints and a first aid kit in easy reach just in case.

There was still an hour or so until the boy showed up so he went over to Molly's office to get a bit more detail on this Moriarty kid.

He knocked on her door before asking if she was busy. She shook her head and smiled at him, inviting him to sit across the desk from her, which he did happily.

"So, I'm seeing the manic-depressive boy today? Anything I should know outside the self-harm issue?"

"Not really. I think today is one where he's coming without his caretaker, so he tends to be more calm those days. Something about his caretaker tends to make him act a bit more.. I don't know. Cruel? It seems to bring out his angry-side when he's with him."

"But you said he's more calm with him."

"He acts more calm, yes, but his personality is much, much crueller."

John nodded slowly, mulling over these details in his mind until he was broken from them due to a soft knock. He glanced over his shoulder to see a short and thin man looking at him expectantly. He studied the nicely groomed hair, the light stubble and the loose fitted suit the man wore.

"I'm sorry. Are you Mr. Moriarty?" John asked, standing up and offering his hand to the smaller man.

"Please, call me Jim. Shall we go into your office, doctor?"

"Watson." John said with a smile, "But you can call me John. Yes, shall we? After you."

Jim happily entered his office after the gesture and settled onto the cot, looking a bit around the office. John settled into his chair and looked at the other and any signs of self-harm.

"Oh, if you're looking for the cuts they're covered. I'd have to take my clothes off for you to see them. Shall I?"

"Only if it's necessary. Do you have any recent ones from after the previous doctor left?"

"Yes, I do. I'm pretty sure they're fine but you'd be in trouble if you didn't look." Jim replied, his voice taking on a sing-song quality as he hopped off the cot and began removing his clothes as if it mattered little to him that he was getting practically naked in front of a stranger.

John cocked a brow as he turned to face his patient, only to find the man leaning back on his elbows in just his pants, happily displaying the cuts along his arms and thighs, as well as his stomach. The blonde clicked his tongue and leaned forward to study them, making sure they were clean and not infected. The man started giggling and he looked up sharply to see what was so funny.

"Your breath tickles, doctor." He breathed out, a hand resting on his stomach as he looked down at the doctor. John sighed and rolled his eyes, moving back from the others stomach.

"The cuts are fine. You seem to be behaving so I have no reason to doubt your prescription. You are free to go." John muttered, sitting down in his chair with his back to his patient so he could write notes in his file.

He froze when he felt the length of the others body press against his back and two arms encircle him.

"I'm so lonely doctor. Won't you help me? Sebastian has been gone ever so long and my body just can't handle the wait." The voice cooed into his ear, one hand rubbing over his cloth-clad nipple and the other began making it's way down his stomach.

He quickly stood, getting out of the others grasps.

"I apologize, Jim, but that's not in my job description. Please leave and go back to your room. Get dressed first." John snapped out when he realised the other was about to leave in just his pants and his clothes in his hands.

Jim groaned but pulled his clothes on regardless before leaving with a flourish. John sighed and ran a hand over his face.

"He pulled a move on you?"

John looked over his shoulder to see Molly smiling at him kindly with a mug in her hand.

"Yes. Does he always do that?" John asked as he stood up, accepting the offered mug with a soft thank you.

Molly nodded with a small smile, "He hits on all the males. He's pan-sexual, apparently, but only seems to hit on the males. I have a feeling he's in that type of relationship with his caretaker."

"From what he was complaining about, I do believe so." John replied, sipping at his coffee before placing it down on the desk.

"I should go check on Mr. Holmes, make sure he's eating and taking his pills." John murmured, smiling at Molly before leaving the office and heading up the stairs to where the patient resided.

He took a breath before knocking on the door. Silence came from the other side and he began to worry the other had fainted once more and hadn't eaten enough that morning. He raised his fist to knock again when the door was yanked open to reveal the tenant inside, glaring at him with a toothbrush in his mouth.

"What?" He growled out after pulling the toothbrush from his mouth.

John's mouth had gone dry, for the other wasn't wearing a single article of clothing. He was wet, his hair hung in damp, messy curls in his eyes and plastering to his face in spots as well as his neck. The droplets of water on the pale, pale flesh caused John's eyes to follow them over the rather built torso, before his brows pinched as he got to the nearly concave stomach. This man rarely ever eats, he's beyond malnourished. John muttered in his head, bringing his eyes back up to the acidic-stare of the tenant.

"You interrupt my grooming only to stare at me? Why are you here. I doubt it was too stare at me like you are doing if your panicked face says anything. Let me guess, wanted to see if I was eating. No, I haven't eaten since this morning. You're welcome to come and look at my kitchen, but I assure you, you won't find any food. I have no caretaker to get it for me and the last doctor wouldn't permit me to leave the residence due to my drug habit, which I've stopped, by the way. Got too expensive."

John stared at the man, mouth open, "He wouldn't let you leave? In your file it says you should be allowed too. No wonder Molly told me to be your caretaker."

"So you will be my caretaker, then? Why don't you get me these groceries you desire to see me eat and bring them back here. I have work to do and no time to do something as pointless as grocery shopping." Sherlock stated, arms crossed and his shoulder leaning heavily against the door frame. The man really had no care for being starkers in full view of everyone.

He heard a door open down the hall and he all but tackled Sherlock into his flat.

"Do you mind? I do not like to be touched. What was that all about? Seriously." The brunette muttered, pushing John off before settling into a chair and pulling a sheet from the floor, placing it in his lap and looking pointedly in the doctors direction.

"Better? Now. For things I'd like you to fetch for me. I prefer sugars. Pastries. They keep the mind active. I have no reason to cook, so I prefer not too, if you get my drift." The other drawled before reaching down on the floor and rummaging a bit before throwing a card at him.

"Use that for any purchases you make for me." Sherlock drawled, crossing his legs and staring at John intently.

"Maybe I should buy you a wardrobe. Seriously, this place is a mess." John stated, staring at the flat that was pretty much just covered in clothes, textbooks and painting supplies.

Sherlock chuckled a little before he stood up and walked into John's personal space. The pale eyes studied him, his face, and he began to slowly walk around him. It was at this moment John saw the discarded sheet and quickly looked up once more. He didn't want to see that part of this man's anatomy again.

"What, were you a vulture in another life?" John snapped out, causing Sherlock to stop what he was doing. The other snorted and went to stand in front of him again.

"I want to paint you. You have such an exquisite look of pain on your face, one I have never painted before." Sherlock whispered, "If I eat, can I paint you?"

John stared, shocked, at the man, but considered it.

"You wouldn't eat otherwise, would you?"

"Probably not." Sherlock replied so quickly, it was obvious he knew exactly what John would say.

"Fine. I'll even cook for you to make sure you bloody eat. Healthy, too. Sugar is not healthy."

Sherlock simply snorted before turning around and disappearing into a far room. John took that for what it was, a dismissal. He sighed before leaving the room, trying to push the image of the man's backside from his mind.

The rest of his day was free bar any emergencies, so with a deep sigh, he made his way to his office to ask Molly where the closest market was.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been on hiatus for so long. I had no ideas or thoughts towards it and there wasn't exactly a large response to it but... I was inspired this morning and quickly wrote this out. It's longer than usual, so it's a treat to those whom were following this before I lost my inspiration. Do enjoy.
> 
> -AW

The Painter

by Ash Winters

Chapter 4

John stared idly at the produce section, contemplating what best to get his patient. Since the man didn't seem to eat unless forced, he decided to only buy enough for tonight's dinner and some non-perishable items so that no food would be wasted due to Sherlock's unhealthy eating habits.

He paid for it quickly at the self serve station and began the ten minute walk back to the complex. He decided to spoil the man a little and had, in fact, purchased some pastries and chocolate in order to show that he wasn't going to force his will on the other. It was an act of goodwill he decided, and had nothing to do with the fact he found the other a bit... disarming.

He ascended the steps into the building quickly, by this point the bags in his hands had gotten most uncomfortable. He put them down for a second, huffing a bit when a soft voice from the stairs startled him.

"Those are for me, yes? Let me help."

John was surprised, looking up to see the thin, waif of a man standing by the stairs. He was swallowed by an oversized, paint covered T-shirt and the pyjama bottoms weren't much better, threatening to fall with each movement so Sherlock held them fast to his hips with his hand.

A thin hand wrapped around one of the bags, hefting it up and the man turned to leave.

"I would have brought them straight to your apartment if you were worried I would make you get them in my office." John said, not understanding why someone with his condition would offer to help.

Sherlock gave him the most scathing look, "I saw you coming from the window. You looked like you could use a hand. Those are for me, so I will take them myself."

John lift his freehand, "All right. No need to be snippy."

The brunette's angry look melted into his usual mask, but not before softening for the merest fraction of a second to give way to a small smile. John filed that away for later, for now focusing on carrying the heavy bag up the last two sets of stairs.

Sherlock pushed the door to his flat open and moved aside so John could enter. The blonde was astonished at the fact there was a pathway from the door to the kitchen to the bed now.

"You tidied a bit I see." He murmured, placing the bags down on the counter next to the fridge.

"Didn't want my subject to hurt himself." Came the reply, a touch muffled.

John looked over his shoulder to see Sherlock's backside, for the other had bent over to rummage in a chest he hadn't noticed near his easel. His heart palpitated and his face flushed, causing him to quickly turn away and put the groceries away as fast as possible. He gulped and stammered out, "I.. I got steak and potatoes for dinner. Sound g-good to you?"

"Yes, and I do say, doctor, that you should get out of the refrigerator if it's causing you to stammer."

John's face flushed as he quickly closed the door to it and shuffled to the side, secluding himself in the kitchen until he calmed.

Once his beating heart settled and he felt his face was back to normal, he began preparing for their dinner. He looked around the kitchen and frowned before he popped his head around the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat and asked, "Do you have any knives, utensils.. anything to prepare food with?"

Sherlock looked up from where he was crouched by the chest and looked at him with a raised brow, "No. Doctor Anderson took off with them, that's another reason I don't eat."

John's stared in shock before he snorted, "What was that guy's problem? Hold on, I'll go to my flat and get my own. I'll go out tomorrow to get you kitchenware, though I would like you to come with me."

"Why, doctor, are you asking me out on a date?"

His face flushed once more and he stammered out a negative before all but flying out of the flat and scurrying down to his own, hands clasped to his face. What was wrong with him?

He entered his flat and sat down heavily on one of his chairs, breathing in and out until he felt himself calm. He tried to think everything over rationally. He was lonely, he lost his wife, he wanted to find a way to forget. But why couldn't this happen with a woman? He tried to push down the fact that he was occasionally attracted to men, he preferred the ease of being normal so only pursued female partners.

He sighed and nodded to himself. Sherlock was one of the first people he met here, so of course he'd be attracted... Oh, who was he kidding if that was the reason he'd be attracted to Molly. He sighed and ran a hand over his face. He'd have to find a way to stop this attraction, it was unprofessional and silly. The last thing a man with anti-social personality disorder needed was to be someone's rebound. He probably had a wife or girlfriend anyway... who never.. visited.

He groaned loudly, waving a hand as if to push it from his mind and stood up, grabbing some cutlery, pans, pots, plates and any other item he'd need to make dinner. He was in the middle of staring at the door, trying to figure out the best way to open it with his hands full when it was yanked open. He looked up in surprise to see Sherlock standing there with a cocked brow.

"You were taking so long I thought you died. Come along, now, John."

John stared on a bit after the other had left his doorway, speechless. Why was someone with his disorder helping him? They normally only care about themselves and what they want. Ah, that's right. He wants to paint him, of course he's helping. The blonde sighed and went to move forward, jumping when Sherlock's head popped into the doorway with a, "John? You coming?"

"Yes, yes, I am! I just need to close the door!" John replied, anger lacing his voice to hide his thoughts.

"I'll do it then, you get going back to my flat." Sherlock sighed, reaching past John to grasp at the knob and pull the door closed behind the blonde.

He made sure the room was locked before following the doctor back to his own flat. John immediately went into the kitchen without a word and began to prepare dinner while Sherlock sat down at the chest again and began pulling out oil paints, cloths, brushes, water cups and his palette and preparing them accordingly on the chest. He was so deeply into his work he was startled by John telling him the food was ready, and by the exasperation in his voice, it had been for awhile.

Sherlock stood and dusted off his bottom and made his way into the kitchen where two steaming plates of food awaited. He didn't have a dining table so he gestured toward his bed, which took up most of the flat, and settled down on it with the plate nestled on his crossed legs.

"Why do you have your bed in the den instead of the bedroom?" John asked as he settled down across from Sherlock, trying very hard to balance the plate on his knee as he worked out how to cut the steak without spilling the contents onto the cotton sheets.

"I dry and store my work in there, it has a better climate for it there instead of here. It's not like I have guests or people to entertain. It's easier to crawl to the bed if I pass out while working if it's here as well." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly while sawing into his meat.

John studied how he sat and mimicked, finding it much easier to cut into his food and eat in that way.

They ate in relative silence, John asking a few questions here and there and receiving evasive or no answer in return. He hoped to learn a bit more about the eccentric man, but he had a thick wall around him and all attempts to penetrate were useless.

"Ready to pose?" Sherlock murmured once the plates were in the paint-stained sink. John took in a deep breath and nodded, looking around awkwardly.

"How and where do you want me to pose?" John asked timidly, unsure of himself now that he was actually going through with his half of the bargain.

"I would prefer naked and splayed on the bed for my visio-"

"You never said anything about it being a nude painting!" John cried out incredulously.

"Let me finish." Sherlock barked out, startling John, whom nodded.

"But I know you aren't comfortable with it, so let's settle with a portrait for now."

"What do you mean 'for now'?" John asked, brows knitted together in confusion as he stared at the brunette, whom had settled down on his stool in front of the easel and canvas.

"I want to paint many of you, in exchange for my eating and compliance of course." Sherlock stated, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Of course." John murmured before settling down on the bed, looking straight at the painter, whom was setting up with a pencil at the moment.

"I thought painters didn't sketch it out on the canvas." John murmured, leaning forward a touch.

"Most don't," Sherlock replied, eyeing his whitewash and deciding to not go that route, "But since it's my first time with you I feel it's needed to get the shape of your face. Normally I touch to get the textures, the frame, everything, but I doubt you'd be comfortable with that at this moment, so I shall sketch them until I'm familiar. Understand?"

John didn't, but nodded anyway before looking towards the window, which was next to the kitchen. He lost himself in his thoughts; thoughts of his dead wife, his new job, of Sherlock and his eccentric behaviour when he was snapped out of them by the strong baritone of Sherlock's voice calling his name.

He jolted and looked up, surprised to see the other holding his palette and paint brush poised over the canvas.

"You've been out of it for nearly an hour already, your wrist must surely be hurting and I figured you'd like a break."

John started in surprise, "Nearly an hour? Really! Yes, a break is a good idea and you're right, my wrist is twinging now that I think about it."

Sherlock carefully placed his palette onto the stool and put the brush into the cup of water as he made his way to the bed and sat down on it. John had made his way to the kitchen and returned with a plate full of Eccles, strudels, éclairs and chocolatines as well as a chocolate bar.

"I didn't know what you like and figured tarts and puff pastries were too bland for you so.."

But he went unheard, for Sherlock's eyes had gone wide and had a glittering aspect to them as he reached out for the plate with child-like glee, happily snagging a chocolatine off the plate and eating it in the blink of an eye. John raised a brow and slowly lowered himself to the bed, careful with the plate in his hand as he settled it into his lap. They ate the pastries in relative silence, John jolting once when Sherlock went to grab a piece of apple strudel and grazed John's stomach with his little finger.

"You all right?" Sherlock asked while bringing the strudel to his lips, a fine brow raised as he regarded the man sitting next to him whom had a faint blush covering his features. John looked to the side pursed his lips for a second before he sent the other a faint smile and an affirmative nod.

"Just lost in thought again, what time is it?"

Sherlock bent down, strudel held fast between his lips as he rummaged on the floor before pulling out a banged up alarm clock and stared at it.

"If the battery hasn't died, it's about eight o'clock in the evening." Sherlock stated after pulling the pastry from his mouth.

John nodded before placing the plate on the counter in the kitchen and settling back down on the mattress.

"We better get back to painting, I should be in bed by midnight latest since I am on call at all times." John stated, a little smile on his lips as Sherlock nodded and stood, making his way to his easel and setting himself up once more.

John looked back out the window, trying to position himself as close as possible to his earlier position and receded into his thoughts once more, but not for long as Sherlock groaned, catching his attention. He looked over with a raised brow and saw the brunette staring at the chest with a pinched expression.

"I don't know where I put it but I don't want to set up again, since it takes a few minutes.. Can you look around the bed for a tube of paint? It should have a sand coloured band around the top." He asked before dabbing his paintbrush in some orange and continuing.

John nodded to himself before sliding off the bed and crouching down, moving clothing, books, paintbrushes and many other things around until he found the tube. He grabbed it and straightened himself up, but he held the tube too hard. He exclaimed as the sand-coloured paint squirted out of the tube, covering his arm and part of his face.

"Shit, the cap must have fallen off!" Sherlock cursed, quickly standing up and placing his palette down with the brush on it instead of in the cup and hurried forward.

"Take your shirt off, hurry! This stains really easily. I'll take care of it, you go shower and get it out of your hair and off your face quickly." Sherlock directed, not letting John to waste a single second by tossing the tube of paint onto his bed and, with deft fingers, quickly undid the button down shirt the blonde was wearing and removed it from his person.

"Your trousers as well? My, you make quite the mess. Off with them, or do you want me to do that as well?" Sherlock mused, enjoying the blush that painted itself across the blonde's cheeks as he quickly undid his trousers and handed them to Sherlock before standing awkwardly in his pants as the brunette moved towards the back room.

"Bathroom is right in front of you, use my soap and whatever you need. I'll bring you a change of clothes, though the shirt might not fit with our size difference." Sherlock instructed before disappearing.

John sighed and made his way into the bathroom where he entered the small shower stall and quickly adjusted the water before stepping in and washing the oil paint quickly from his skin.

He heard the door open and adjusted himself accordingly to not expose his most private parts to the painter, whom chuckled under his breath as he deposited a change of clothes on the toilet.

"I'll be in the back room when you're out. Oh, and pity you won't let me draw you nude."

John's face flamed as he quickly scrubbed at his face, trying to push the others words from his mind as he finished up and exited the stall. On the toilet was a button down shirt, pyjama bottoms and a fresh towel. He quickly grabbed the towel and dried himself best he could before pulling on the bottoms and attempting the shirt, but his build wasn't as lean and he quickly discarded it, folding it back up. He tossed the towel into what he presumed was the hamper- though the man never seemed to use it if his room was any indication- and made his way back into the den, placing the shirt gently onto the bed away from the tube of paint and padded over to where the back room was located. He pushed the door open gently before pressing a hand to his nose as the smell of paint thinner hit him.

"Sorry about the smell, it's the best way to remove it from your button down shirt and pants. I'll wash them immediately after and the stain and smell shouldn't linger further. I hope it wasn't a favourite outfit. Ah, I was right, the shirt didn't fit you did it? Hope you don't mind."

Sherlock turned to look at John as he stood up, and showed John that the stains were mostly out now. He brushed past the blonde and headed into the bathroom where he could hear running water. Curious, the blonde followed to see the other quickly washing the shirt in the sink before throwing the clothes in the washer and turning it on.

"They should be fine. Shall we continue? Or did that put you off being my model?"

John shook his head and smiled, "Let's continue."

They settled back down, Sherlock retrieving the tube from the bed and he studied the blonde.

He was not a man to care about people, he disliked and distrusted all people and felt no need to know a single person. But there was something about his new doctor that he found.. interesting, intriguing and dare he say.. arousing? He eyed the blonde, whom resumed staring out the window, and for once in his life he felt a stirring in his loins. It was... different, something he'd never experienced and it was almost irksome, yet he was captivated. The damp locks sticking to his forehead and cheeks, the stray rivulet of water sliding down his neck, pooling at his clavicle before spilling over and caressing a dusky nipple...

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked at his painting, which was in the base colours. He hadn't done the base colour for the shirt yet and he decided not to. He quietly tossed the light blue tube of paint back into the chest and began painting the shoulders and chest with a pale peach.

John had lost himself in thought again, he mused, and began adding the shading and contouring to his painting. He prided himself in his fast way of painting, and since this was the first of many...

He smiled and quickly began adding the highlights and details, licking his lips just so as he added the white line of the rivulet of water down the fine neck. He hummed as he studied the nearly complete painting. Oh, this was going on his wall. No one was allowed to have this painting.

By the time he deemed it acceptable to finish without the model, he glanced at the time. It was nearly midnight and John.. why.. He had fallen asleep.

Sherlock bit back a smile as he stood up and made his way into the kitchen, snagging an Éclair with paint stained fingers and chewing at it happily. Once finished, he made his way to John, whom was in a deep sleep if the light snore was any indication. He didn't know why he bothered or what was so charming about this man, but he smiled so much more in one day than he had in a lifetime. He gently picked the blonde up before placing him carefully in his bed and pulled the rumpled duvet up and tucked the doctor in. He ran his hand through the sandy locks, making a noise in his throat at how soft and silky they were. He then let his hand wander down the soft face and neck before pulling back. He turned off the light that was by the bed and went into the bathroom to put the shirt and trousers in the dryer before settling back down at his canvas and began adding the textures he felt onto the canvas. This was going to be lovely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! Huge thanks to the lovely Hichiisai for helping me figure out the conversation later on in this chapter. Do enjoy and R&R!

The Painter

by Ash Winters

Chapter 5

A faint noise in the background is the first thing that curled into John's ear as he slowly awoke. The noise faded out and he let out a light sigh, contemplating what could be the cause of it in his flat. He stirred once again when a soft rustling noise began a little to the right of him. He groggily opened his eyes, his blurry vision soon clearing to see the thin form of his patient, starkers, in the kitchen.

He groaned under his breath as he identified the faint noise he heard as the sound of the shower. Unconsciously, he allowed his eyes to trail over the man; he had a lot of scars. So many, in fact, he wondered if the man had a self-harm issue.

Sherlock turned around and saw John was awake, an éclair between his lips. He chewed thoughtfully, leaning his hip against the counter as he stared intently at the blushing doctor. Yes. He wanted to paint this expression, too. He finished his breakfast and strode to his wardrobe, pulling out a pair of trousers and a silk button down, both black.

"Do you have any appointments today, doctor?" Sherlock asked as he slid the trousers on, fastening them and turning around to stare at the bug-eyed doctor.

"You're.. not going to put on any pants?" John asked, eyes practically locked on the light bulge in the fitted pants.

"Not comfortable, ride up and chafe, pointless. I'll just take them off again once home. Now, appointments, doctor?"

"N-no, actually." John stuttered out, averting his eyes as Sherlock slid the silk shirt on. It made him look devastatingly handsome and suave.

"I just have to do a little paperwork in the morning, and from then on I'm simply on call. If you don't mind sitting in my office for about a half hour, you can come with me."

He peeked at Sherlock, whom was nodding absent-mindedly as he pulled open a drawer and grabbed a pair of black socks. He settled onto the bed and pulled them on, mindful of not bumping into John.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep, did I make it impossible for you to sleep and paint?" John asked while staring down at his lap.

"It's all right, John. I simply put you in my bed and I rarely sleep anyway. I continued on with the painting even after tucking you in." Sherlock stood and made his way back into the kitchen, picking up the last éclair and sticking it in his mouth before grabbing the plate and meandering back over to the bed, placing the nearly empty dish in front of John on the bed.

"Breakfast. Eat. I'll get your clothes." Sherlock stated around the pastry in his mouth before slipping into the bathroom.

John nodded and picked up a chocolatine, taking a large bite out of it and looking around. While the place was quite an atrocious mess and smelled strongly of oil paints, paint thinner and man, Sherlock to be specific, it felt.. homely. Lived in. He was strangely comfortable in the room, to the point he wasn't shocked or outraged that he awoke in a strange bed and not in his own flat. He didn't assume Sherlock abused him in any way or anything of the sort. He felt a.. camaraderie, a connection. He felt like he belonged for the first time in a long time.

Sherlock made his way back out of the bathroom with the jeans and shirt tossed over one arm. He placed them unceremoniously onto the bed and settled down on it, waiting for John to dress.

"Um, could you... turn around?" John asked after standing up and pulling the clothes towards him.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, perplexed as he watched the blonde pull his shirt on and button it.

"Is it too much to ask for some privacy?" John replied, glaring at the brunette as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of the pyjamas he wore.

"I saw you naked last night, so it's nothing new."

John bristled and grabbed the jeans, striding into the bathroom and angrily closing the door. The nerve of that man, he thought angrily as he shoved the pyjama bottoms down and tossed them in the hamper before pulling up his jeans and securing them around his waist. He left the bathroom to see Sherlock staring at him with a raised brow and that infuriating little smirk he wore when he felt John did something silly.

"Let's go." He growled out, yanking open the door to the flat and leaving.

Sherlock chuckled to himself and followed behind, locking his door on the way out. He followed a short distance behind the enraged blonde, understanding that prodding him now may very well break the fragile relationship they currently had. It was the first time he found himself caring.

John entered his office after waving at Molly, whom had a young girl in the chair opposite her.

"That must be Irene." John murmured as he settled into his chair and began going through his paperwork.

Sherlock glanced out the door before sitting down on the cot and nodded to himself, "Yes, that's her. Very rare for her to leave her flat. Must have had no choice. She's really smart, you'd like her."

John looked over his shoulder at the brunette, whom was staring out the doorway once again with a thoughtful look.

"You speak rather amiably of her, are you friends?" John asked, smiling as he continued writing out a report on Sherlock.

"I guess you could call us that. We don't really talk nor see each other often, just occasionally in the hall or in the office. On the odd occasion when she feels better she'll come to my flat and I'll paint her until she gets too agitated and flees back to her room."

John nodded, feeling his chest tighten a bit at the thought that he wasn't the first to be painted. He mentally smacked himself, his mind stating that of course he paints other people, he's a painter, and he wasn't interested in him like that.

"You sound sweet on her, are you guys together?" John queried, keeping any emotion from his voice.

The sound that came out of Sherlock caused the blonde to turn around, thinking he had died suddenly. The incredulous look he received spoke volumes as the other hissed out, "I have no romantic interest in that woman. I hold every form of respect for her. I cannot love, it's a pointless feeling that I will never wish to have and it would just ruin my work."

John's chest ached but he pushed it aside as he murmured out an, "I see," before going back to work.

They stayed silent for a lengthy moment, John had moved on to Moriarty's file when Sherlock spoke up, "How much longer will we sit in this silence as you write out fancy paragraphs that just stand for, 'they're alive, they haven't killed themselves or others, they're stable, don't need to be in the loony bin.' ?"

John snorted, chuckling a bit as he replied, "I'm almost done. Just finishing up Moriarty's file."

"I heard my name!"

John looked over his shoulder to see the manic depressive standing in the doorway, a smile gracing his features as he walked in. He tilted his head and regarded Sherlock, then John, before straightening up and sitting next to Sherlock on the cot.

"Hello! How are you guys doing today? I'm here to see Molly, but she's busy with Irene." Moriarty prattled on pointlessly and John went back to his work but froze when Sherlock muttered, "Would you shut up unless you have something interesting to say? My intelligence is dwindling."

John waited for Moriarty's mood to switch and for him to get angry, but instead a throaty laugh left the small man.

"You don't beat around the bush do you? Call me Jim."

"Sherlock."

John presumed they shook hands and he kept to himself as the two began to talk about random things and it turned out they had much in common. Both were into cold cases, criminology, chemistry, science, classical music, literature and art. He finished up the papers and pretended to keep on working so the two could talk more. Friends was something they needed in this desolate place and he was in no way going to hinder a possible friendship.

However, Jim's mood soon changed into the flirty man he met the other day when he heard a giggle and an uncomfortable sound from Sherlock. He glanced back to see Jim leaning into the others personal space, a hand on his thigh as he murmured out, "I'd cut my ear off for you. Would you let me be your Mona Lisa then?"

The black haired man then erupted into giggles as he took in the shocked expressions on both the doctor and Sherlock's faces.

"Oh, don't give me that look. It's just so funny seeing the various expressions of shock on people's faces. It never gets old!" He chortled out, hands wrapped around his stomach.

Sherlock and John stared at each other before chuckling awkwardly as they watched the smaller man curl into himself as he continued to laugh. A knock on the door brought him out of his snickers as he looked up to see the stony expression of a tall red-head.

"Sebastian!" He squealed and all but threw himself at the tall man, who caught him easily and held him as the smaller man wrapped his legs around the thin waist of his companion.

"So, that's Sebastian.." John mumbled under his breath as he watched the strange red-head leave the room with the other man all but wrapped around him, blabbing on and on about something asinine until he was quieted by the closing of Molly's office door.

"He is a whirlwind, isn't he?" John said to Sherlock, whom nodded slowly before getting up.

"You've been finished with your work for awhile now, can we please get going?" Sherlock stated, arms crossed as he stared down at John.

John chuckled and nodded, "Yes, let's go."


End file.
